Date: Fri, 08 Jan 1999 06:31:51 GMT
From: Michael Gouda <stachys@eurobell.co.uk>
Subject: Robin o'Wood (Part 5)

                  Robin O' Wood
                  =============

              Part 5: Midsummer Revels 
              ------------------------

           Fytte the First: King's Delight

Edward II - (by the Grace of God) King of England, Wales and numerous
(disputed) parts of France - frowned over a mass of official documents
piled up on the table in front of him. His attention concentrated on two
of the parchments, trying to decipher the crabbed writing produced by the
spluttering of a badly sharpened quill or an unscholarly hand. The tip of
his tongue protruded between his lips with the effort. Blond hair curled
over his ears. He scowled, with the expression of a schoolboy forced to
study unwillingly for his catechism. 

     Outside mild Spring sunshine frolicked in the streets, intruded
through the slit windows and lit up the dust motes in their golden dance.

     But even so it was gloomy inside the chamber and though warm outside,
the stone walls made the room damp and chilly. A sconce of candles burnt
on the thick wooden table, providing more light for the King to work by.
Some screens strategically placed cut off some of the draughts. And on the
walls there hung rich tapestries with scenes of legend and history freely
intermixed.

     Piers Gaveston lolled nearby on a padded fauldstool and attempted a
distraction. A lock of dark hair flopped over his forehead. He opened his
legs to display a provoking bulge in the fork of his green woollen hose,
green to match his eyes, woollen to mould the shape. 

     His King noticed the protuberance, abandoned the scowl and laid down
his pen with a return of good humour. His face cleared and became open and
fair, the blue eyes inherited from his mother, Queen Eleanor, the ruddy
complexion from his father.

     "You would entice me with that?" he asked, smiling.

     "It is yours but to command, Sire," said Gaveston, his eyes suggested
innocent mischief and his lips beguiled. 

     "I'd rather woo it with a kiss," said Edward, and then turned back
regretfully to his papers, "but matters of State call." He picked up the
parchment again.

     "Surely they can wait for a little while," said Gaveston, seductively
moving his hips so that his groin was thrust forward, emphasising the
outline, cock and balls, the essence of man. 

     Edward groaned, torn between his duties and his desires. 

     "It was ever thus," he said. "Am I a man first or a King?"

     "A man always," said Gaveston. "It is the man I love . . . "

     "You do not love your King?" asked Edward no longer playful.

     Seeing he was serious Gaveston said, "I love Edward. Edward the man,
Edward the King, Edward who has his problems and his duties. And will
Edward tell his Piers what is his problem now?" 

     "Ah my beautiful Piers," said the King, "nothing you need to bother
you're pretty head about." The remark sounded patronising and
condescending and Piers was incensed.

     He shook his head. "Green eyes I may have, lustrous black hair,
Mediterranean olive skin with the smoothness of soft velvet and a cock, as
you have so often told me, that is always ready for sucking or fucking -
but I do also have a brain  . . . Edward!"

     Edward felt suitably chastised. He stood up and came over carrying
some of the letters to sit beside him. "The High Sheriff of Yorkshire," he
waved a piece of parchment under Piers' nose. "The Abbot of Doncaster,
Bishop of Peterborough," showing him another. "They have written
complaining of the activities of one, Robin Hood, outlaw, thief,
murderer." 

     "All three have written?" asked Piers Gaveston, smiling.

     The King sighed. "They may very well all be the same person," he said
then considered. "The Sheriff though must be a layman, the other two are
possibly the same."

     "In what way is it a problem? And if it is, why can't they solve it
themselves? The Sheriff must have soldiers."

     "This Robin apparently - " Edward rubbed Piers' cock through its
scarcely-concealing hose and noted appreciatively how it grew " - is a
magician, a devil, a savage rogue who has the countryside at his beck and
call. The local townspeople adore him. He has an almost superhuman skill
with the bow and arrow. The legend is that he has the strength of ten men
and the virility of a stallion. He swallows up soldiers - "

     " - as I swallow the King," said Piers, suiting his action to the
words by unbuttoning Edward's gold-embroidered cote-hardie, delving into
the warmth underneath to find and take into his mouth the Royal member.

     "The Sheriff wants reinforcements . . " Piers didn't answer being
busy with hand and mouth. 

     "Am I boring you?" asked Edward, perhaps fearing he had lost his
audience.

     "Not yet," said Piers indistinctly, "but I'm considering the
possibility." He resumed his activity, then paused to say, "And this Robin
Hood? "

     "Oh yes. A certain Sir Guy of Gisborne despatched into the forest."
Piers peeled down more of Edward's hose exposing blond hair.

     "The forest, the forest," said Piers, nosing around the forest in the
Royal groin, rooting like a truffle pig after delicious scents.

     " and disappeared into it . . . "

     Piers' finger disappeared between the cheeks of Edward's buttocks,
producing a gasp and - very nearly - an eruption from the King's groin.

     "Where do you want me to come?" asked the King, giving up for a
moment all deliberation of the more weighty matters of English
law-breakers. Gaveston appeared to consider, but by then it was too late .
. .

     ". . . and never returned," finished the King.

     Gaveston lapped up the result. "Will you send some? Reinforcements, I
mean."

     "I've an notion to go myself. What do you say to a summer release
from tedious London, tedious documents, tedious affairs of State."

     "Tedious Piers?"

     "Never," said Edward and took hold of his lover's ever-willing cock.
            

                 Fytte the Second: Sheriff's Spree


Lancolme, Abbot of Doncaster, Bishop of Peterborough and Rufus Derwent,
the High Sheriff of Yorkshire discussed the problem of Robin Hood, walking
slowly around the cloistered quadrangle of the Abbey - almost as if they
were a pair of holy brothers in quiet meditation. Indeed the Sheriff's
dark cloak could scarcely be distinguished from the Abbot's Dominican
habit.

     "I have written to the King," said the Sheriff, his eyebrows drawn
together into a frown, his sparse grey hairs disturbed by the April
breezes.

     "Was that wise?" Lancolme neglected to mention that he also had
written. "Do all the taxes collected go into the Royal coffers?" he mused,
almost as if he was talking to himself. "If the King's attention should be
drawn in that direction . . . " He left the sentence unfinished but the
implication was obvious.

     "I pay the Tax Inspectors enough to make sure they will back up my
accounts," said the Sheriff, feeling a little aggrieved that he felt it
necessary to defend himself. "And the Church tithes, my Lord Bishop?" he
asked, taking the offensive.

     "A matter for Ecclesiastical Law. The King dare not meddle." Lancolme
threw back his hood so that the sunshine could warm his face and then put
his soft hands together, almost as if he was praying.

     The Sheriff sighed. He knew it was true.

     "He is scarcely more than a boy himself anyway," said the Abbot. "He
probably does not understand these weighty matters - too concerned with
his favourite, Piers Gaveston, I understand."

     "Have you seen the King?" asked Derwent.

     "He was at my induction! A blond-haired man with little enough
seriousness for such weighty matters." The Abbot returned to the matter in
hand. "This Robin Hood, though. In his own kingdom," he said - 

     "Please don't use that word!"

     "Realm, dominion, territory - Barnesleydale Forest," continued the
Abbot as if he had not been interrupted, "he is invincible."

     Again a testy command from the Sheriff: "Or that one either!"

     "Unassailable, unconquerable, impossible to catch . . . " Really,
thought the Abbot, this Rufus Derwent is too easily provoked. Perhaps it
could be used against him. He put the idea aside for later contemplation.
"But if Robin were to be tempted out of the greenwood in whose fastness he
hides with his band? He prides himself on his archery skills I
understand."

     "He was nigh on caught at Ferrybridge at the Fair last Christmas but
Sir Guy failed . . . "

     "Sir Guy," interrupted the Abbot dismissively, "was always an
incompetent failure." The sun was warm on his face. Another turn round the
cloisters and then some dried fruits in honey. At the thought his mouth
watered.

     "Do not speak ill of the dead!" Whether the Sheriff had real feeling
for the late Sir Guy of Gisborne, or whether it was a superstitious dread
that his ghost might come back to haunt them if sufficiently incensed, was
not clear.

     "The dead have no dominion over the living," said the Abbot betraying
his own disbelief. "Once you are dead, you remain so." 

     "Not looking down from Heaven onto us poor mortals beneath?" queried
Sheriff. It was a concern that had troubled him in the past.

     "I suspect not. We must take our pleasures and our pains here on
earth." The Abbot seemed to have no fears of talking so openly like this
but then it was to a man who had more or less admitted defrauding the King
of his taxes. He returned yet again to the subject. "But you were saying
about Robin Hood nearly being taken . . . " 

     ". . . at an archery contest in Ferrybridge last Christmastide or
just before."

     "If a suitably rich award were to be offered - and the news of it
bruited abroad, might he not be tempted out, say for the Midsummer Revels.
A gold arrow for example as a prize. Might that not coax the insolent
brigand from his stronghold in the forest?"

     "It well might . . . " said the Sheriff, considering.

     "And return an erring lamb to his fold," said the Abbot, "Brother
Dominic, I mean." 

     "For Midsummer's Day perhaps," said the Sheriff.


                  Fytte the Third: May Fair
            

Now that Maytime was almost upon them, Robin was thinking of amusements
for his men - May Day revelling in the greenwood - but what amusements to
devise? Since the harsh winter they had no Hugh now to provide music and
Much's former youthful voice had broken so that now it cracked and
quavered like a corncrake. 

     But it was no time to think of cheerless times. Winter was past and
though Spring had been a long time a-coming, it was now arrived - indeed
was almost into summer. The mud that had clogged their shoes for months
had dried, the grass in the glade sprouted fresh and green and on the
trees the new leaves provided cover for the birds to nest and proclaim
their territories. White star-flowers of ramsons blossomed in the shade
and their savoury taste added flavour to the meat in the stews. The
outlaws picked and ate the young leaves of the hawthorn bushes, a
sovereign prevention from the scurvy. But men grew weary of a life without
variety or novelty. They would grow tetchy and quarrel amongst themselves.

     Obviously there should be archery to show their skills. But amongst
the outlaws each knew the others strengths and weaknesses too well and
Robin himself could always best them all. There was need for some other
competition. A wrestling contest, perhaps, the winner to be proclaimed May
King. But would that be fair to the boys? Robin observed them now sitting
together at the edge of the glade, talking, the sunlight on their faces.
He noted how Much and Will seemed to have shot up in height, put on muscle
and strength. Their wrestling with each other was more of a power struggle
now than the puppyish romping of a few months ago. They were young men
rather than boys, their voices deeper, but even so no match for
fully-developed adults like Allan or Richard. 

     Dark-haired Will, with his steady grey eyes, that recently acquired
fuzz of hair on his upper lip, of which he was inordinately proud. Much
still had his tip-tilted nose that gave him a ragamuffin look but now with
three hairs on his chest, which he was inclined to show off to anyone who
showed interest - as well as the bushes in armpit and groin which were at
the moment only for Will's special inspection - he considered himself a
man. 

     Both would feel humiliated if told they were not up to fighting with
the rest.

     A wrestling match would certainly not be fair on these young lads.

     Then the twins, Peter and Thomas Quint, mostly silent though
seemingly in communication together for sometimes they would look at each
other and quietly nod in unspoken agreement. Robin found it occasionally
rather unnerving that each seemed to know what the other was thinking. 
Their skill, though was not with the bow and arrow but spectacularly
accomplished with the throwing knives.

     So an archery contest would not be fair on them.

     They could cast votes perhaps?

     Allan Forrest would of course vote for Piers Howard and Piers for
Allan, but what of Richard Flute? The three stood together even now
arguing over something, Robin could not be sure what, but voices were
raised. Robin sighed. Before the arrival of Richard it had just been Allan
and Piers together, true lovers - and now the newcomer had, it seemed,
well not exactly stepped between them but appeared to want to. It had not
been the same since that expedition to Gisborne Castle and the raid on Sir
Guy's Treasury. From being just a casual observer of the two, Richard had
seemed to adopt a more proprietorial attitude to one or other of the pair.
John had noticed this, had pointed it out to Robin, and since then, it had
become more and more obvious.

     And now they were shouting! Robin sighed again and prepared to go
over to sort the dispute out but John had already seen it, was there,
talking quietly, calming things down, making them laugh.

     Dear John, that huge giant of a man with the gentleness of a lamb.
What would Robin do without him, he wondered.

     A cock pheasant called from the wood, harsh and raucous, a mating
call. Five sounds and then a pause and then five times again. All the
outlaws heard and knew it for what it was, the messenger's signal from
Ferrybridge no less. And not one they had heard recently for Ferrybridge
had had the plague and no one had come out of that sad village for fear of
spreading it further. But now if someone had been sent, it must surely
mean the plague had cleared.

     A man dressed  in rough brown tunic and hose appeared from between
the trees and approached. Robin was instantly cautious for the fellow was
a stranger. He paused on the edge of the clearing.

     "Robin," called the man, "Robin Hood. I am a friend. John the Potter
is dead of the plague but I am in his place. He told me how to find you
and the signal to use."

     Some of the outlaws went towards him, anxious to hear the news from
the world outside, but John stopped them. "Is the plague gone then, from
Ferrybridge?" he asked, cautious as always.

     "Aye," said the man. "Gone a month since and no one sickened during
all that time."

     "Then thou are welcome indeed," said Robin. "Come over, sit, drink
some cider and tell us your name and the news."

     "Roger the Weaver's apprentice," he said and drank thirstily from the
leather cup for he had travelled far and the sun was warm. "Aye, the
plague has dealt harshly with us but at long last it has gone."

     "What of Dickon, Hugh Goodyear's son?" asked John. "His father,
before he died, asked that we make sure he was well looked after."

     "Mistress Seton of Seton Farm has taken him in," said Roger. "He is a
strong, willing lad and is useful on the farm since her husband died."

     "We will give you some money to take to her," said Robin before John
was able to say anything. "Is there anything else?"

     The man considered. "An outbreak of swine fever to add to our
troubles and the Sheriff of Yorkshire has taken Sir Guy's castle since his
death."

     "Sheriff Derwent has enough property of his own," said Robin. "Were
there no relatives of Sir Guy to inherit."

     The man shrugged. He obviously did not know. "The Abbot of Doncaster
wants his novice back."

     "Ha! Do you hear that, Will? Thou art as popular with the new Abbot
as with the old."

     Will Scarlock who had once been Brother Dominic, stroked his upper
lip. "I think I have committed too many sins to ever become a monk again -
and taken pleasure in them as well," he said and cast a sideways look at
Much. They laughed together and Robin was glad. At one time, Will would
have been terrified at the suggestion of his return to the Abbey.

     "There are rumours that the King goes North to punish the rebellious
Scots."

     "Oh the King," said Robin casually, as if his Majesty's travels were
of little importance though they dined daily on his venison and, by Law,
could have been hung for it.

     "And there is the Archery contest at Nottingley," said Roger. "A
golden arrow for the prize. On Midsummer's Day."

     John felt a sudden twinge of alarm. "Remember, Robin," he warned.
"the last time - at Ferrybridge when we were so nearly caught."

     It was probably the worst thing he could have said.

     Robin's face took on a determined look. "I was within a mouse's teat
of winning that," he said. "When that muckstraw of a Guy of Gisborne, put
me off and I shot into the air missing the target."

     For some reason both Will and Much thought this comical, catching
each other's eye, and laughing.

     "So Nottingley on Midsummer's Day," said Robin after Roger Weaver had
left. "That will be something to look forward to . . .  and now, in the
meantime we have the May King to crown and our own revels. I have decided
that Lady Luck will make the choice. Come John, prepare some straws. He
who draws the short one will be our King for the day."
                

                 Fytte the Fourth: May King


May Day dawned bright and clear, warm with only the gentlest of breezes -
as it must always do in the Golden Age of Yesterday. A throne had been
prepared made from alder withies, perfumed with sweetsmelling meadowsweet
and hedge bedstraw, decorated with the yellow flowers of crosswort, the
whole thing placed in the centre of the glade. And the twins had twined
bugle and red campion, sweet woodruff and silverweed, meadow cranesbill
and pink mallow into a crown for the King to wear, jewelled flowers of
blue and red, amethyst and ruby.

     But who would succeed to that throne, become Lord of the Mayday
Ceremonies and preside over the Revels? There was some talk that the boys
were too young, would not take the post seriously enough but Robin would
have none of it. "We will all take our chance," he said. "Pick the straw
from the bunch and the Lady will decide.

     Some of the number were new to the group and did not know what duties
and responsibilities the 'King' would have to undertake so John sat them
down on the grassy bank and told them, while the sun warmed them and the
birds sang and all was merry in the greenwood.

     "The crowning of the May King," he said, "is an old-established
tradition. In times long past all would swear fealty to the May King and
would in honour bound do anything on this day of days, that the King
commands. He would be feasted and lauded, honoured and praised but at
sunset, he would be killed and his blood scattered over the land so that
it would be fertile and produce the crops."

     Will and Much looked a little uneasy at this and even Piers' normally
cheerful expression clouded into a frown.

     "Have no fear," said John. "We do not do that these days but it is a
time of pleasure for the one elected King and all he has to do is to see
fair play amongst the others, decide on the order of the games, arbitrate
if there are disputes. Of course he has to accept their tribute and their
homage. And it is up to him to decide what that payment is from each of
his subjects."

     A buzz of discussion broke out as each thought, if he was made King, 
what he might exact form the rest as tribute.

     "But once it is decided," warned John, "then the same forfeit is due
from everyone."

     Richard had a smile on his lips. He knew exactly what payment he
would exact from each and every one of the nine men if he should be the
lucky one - but it was not to be. He drew first and his straw was long, as
was Allan's and both the Quint brothers, and Much and Will - and then
there were only three. John who held the straws and would only win if the
short one was left in his hand, offered them to Robin who stood next in
the line. But Robin stepped back and gave his place to Piers and was
perhaps just a little relieved when the dark-haired youth, Allan Forrest's
beloved, drew the winning straw.

     The others cheered and a smile spread over Piers' face. But then he
frowned as obviously the decision as to what would be the forfeit troubled
him. He went to Allan and whispered in his ear. Allan shook his head and
Richard objected. "Surely he cannot tell the King what to ask," he said.

     John nodded. "That is true," he said. "It must be the King's own
decision without advice or guidance from any other."

     So Piers sat on the throne and John placed the chaplet on his head
where it looked fetching enough, the flowers standing out bright and gay
from those ebony locks. Robin put one of the cloaks they had found in the
late Abbot's coffer - one made from red velvet which caught the sunshine
so that it looked as if it was on fire - and placed it around his
shoulders. And the four emblems of Royalty were given to him: the sword 
fastened to his belt, the wand placed in one hand and the cup in the
other, and finally the coin touched his lips. Right regal he looked in the
Merry month of May Then they cheered and waited for his pronouncement and
Piers looked proud but a little embarrassed at their acclamation.

     "So what is the forfeit?" asked Richard.

     "Three kisses each," said Piers, "on forehead, cheeks and lips."

     Allan looked relieved. Knowing Piers' sense of fun he would not have
been surprised at something quite outrageous, but it was not as bad as he
had feared.

     At first Piers seemed a little embarrassed, the smile on his face a
little forced, his voice a little hesitant but Allan stood beside him and
from his presence he gained confidence.

     "My people . . . " he said, the crown slipping slightly down on one
side giving him a rakish air. "My friends . . . Welcome to the Mayday
Revels." He paused and Allan standing next to him. his blond hair almost
as bright as the sunlight, whispered in his ear. "Oh yes," Piers said.
"First I will accept your homage."

     Then the outlaws stood in a line before him and gave him three kisses
each, bussing him on the forehead, cheek and lips, and some kisses were
chaste and respectful, as was proper to a sovereign, even one just for a
day. These came from the two younger boys who were just a little in awe of
the proceedings, and the Quint twins who seemed to recognise the antiquity
of the tradition. Others though, Robin and John, kissed him with wild good
humour as if it was a joke, giving his cheek a smack so that it blossomed
like a flower and Piers' eyes sparkled with the fun. And then there were
two who kissed him in a different way entirely. One was his lover, Allan,
whose kiss was sensual and whose tongue was willingly accepted within
those desirous lips. But Richard's kiss was lascivious and his lips were
bruising, his tongue almost a forceful violation so that Piers gasped
allowing him to go further in.

     Allan was about to protest but Robin's laughing comment stopped him,
"It is but a jest," and he slapped Richard on the back so that he withdrew
and desisted. Allan stared at Richard and his eyes were hard and surprised
as if he had just learned something which before had not been apparent.
Watching him, Much remembered how, when he had first joined the band,
Allan had told him how he had killed a soldier who had attempted to rape
his sister, and then cut off his penis. For a moment he was uneasy, but
Robin was laughing and asking Piers to announce the first contest, which
he did.

     It was an archery match, or rather a shooting match, for any weapon
could be used and the target was the King's wand set at a hundred paces.
Robin himself was not taking part for, as everyone knew, he could beat
them all at such a competition.

     All entered willingly and with great good humour, laughing when an
arrow, or in Peter Quint's case, a dagger missed the target entirely but
they could not but notice how Richard and Allan competed seriously against
each other and that, when Allan eventually won, Richard's face lost its
usual smile and became set and intense.

     Then came some games of chance, with cards and dice, where it was the
Lady rather than any intrinsic skill which decided the winner. But
although others won from time to time it was Richard and Allan who mostly
came first and John, who was keeping tally, remarked on how the two of
them exceeded all the rest but were always within on or two of the other.

     And then they raced and jumped, vying with each other as to who was
the quickest, or who could leap the farthest or highest.

     The sun climbed into the sky, reached its zenith and started its
downward path. They broke off the games, the running and jumping had made
them breathless and sweaty, and drank good English ale and cider and
perry. Roasted meats there were, mutton and pork and beef, as well as game
and venison with manchet bread to mop up the gravies. With honeyed fruits
to finish and nuts saved over from the previous autumn.

     There was much laughter and joking but John could not but notice how
Allan's eyes often strayed to Richard's face and if he should go close to
Piers, now sitting at he head of the table and drinking perhaps rather too
much than was good for him, Allan would be there, by Piers' side,
interposed between him and Richard. John hoped that this bad feeling would
not spoil their fellowship.

     After they had rested a while, the wrestling was announced and again
they drew straws as to who should fight with whom. Robin would have
preferred to make sure that the contests were even by arranging the
matches himself but after his insistence that the Lady should decide, he
felt it was better that this ruling should be consistent. So it was that
Much and William were drawn against John and Peter Quint and both boys
soon eliminated though not without showing themselves off well. Both took
it in good part though and afterwards got together to have their own
wrestling contest where they were more evenly matched and enjoyed the feel
of each other's muscles and limbs wrapped around and straining.

     Then it was Allan's turn to fight Robin and though it was expected
that Robin should win, Allan seemed to have more determination and
strength on this day and Robin was thrown and cheerfully acknowledged his
opponent as the victor. In their match Richard caught Tom Quint in a
headlock after an unlucky slip on the grass and was adjudged the winner of
that round.

     So there were just the four of them left, Richard, Peter Quint, Allan
and John. Now there was the final drawing and John observed how Allan's
face grew taut when he found out he had drawn John and Richard was
fighting Peter. He knew that Alan wanted more than anything to beat
Richard. But to do that he would have to best him and no one could do that
unless John allowed it.

     He wondered if it were wise to allow it. If the two fought, they
might get the animosity out of their bodies, on the other hand a fight
might aggravate the situation, make it many times worse. Black haired
Piers with the laughing eyes and cock-happy bum was the real trouble - but
that was hardly his fault.

     John went over to where Robin was sitting on the grass, long legs
outstretched, enjoying the sunshine and the entertainment of his men.

     "Allan thinks he needs to fight Richard," he said quietly. "'Tis over
Piers."

     Robin gave him an appraising look. "And do you think he needs to?"

     "I think it will do more harm if he doesn't."

     Robin nodded. "Then do what thou must," he said.

     In their contest John managed to make it look convincing by slipping
on the grass and falling. Allan leapt onto his upper body lying across him
and held his shoulders down for the count while John pretended to buck and
strain to toss him off.

     Richard defeated Peter with suspicious ease and John wondered whether
Robin had had a quiet word with Quint.

     Piers sat on his throne and looked delighted. "The final contest," he
announced. "Richard Flute will fight Allan Forrest for the winner's
crown," and he took off his flowered chaplet which had, during the day and
more than a few cups of strong perry, been becoming more and more
unmanageable and waved it at the two.

     Richard was very lithe and agile, and Allan recognised right from the
start that he would need all his strength to win.  For a while they
circled like two dogs sniffing out an opponent's weaknesses. Then Allan
dashed in, grasped him round the waist and tried to throw him onto his
back but Richard twisted free. Allan's hand made a snatch for his thigh,
but again Richard's speed at eluding meant that instead his hand fell into
his crotch.  It was soft and eminently grabbable but not an altogether
approved wrestling hold so  Allan released his grasp, but in doing so made
it easy for Richard to twist a leg around his so that he overbalanced and
both fell tumbling onto the soft grass floor.  Immediately Richard
launched himself on top of him, and their torsos were joined from chest to
hips. Allan rolled and managed to break free, and, quickly getting to his
feet, seized Richard's waist from the back, both men panting and gasping
as they pitted their muscles against each other. Allan was acutely aware
that his prick was sandwiched between the twin globes of Richard's arse
and, despite himself, rapidly becoming stimulated.  

     Suddenly Richard bent down and put his hand between his own legs and
straight to Allan's fork, grabbing hold of his balls and cock, and this
time Allan knew it was intentional. In retaliation he reached around and
felt Richard's own crotch only to discover that his prick had reacted in
the same way.  Thus with each other's members in their hands, they
remained for a while neither willing to let go, while the audience cheered
and made ribald remarks at which, as if by mutual consent, they released
each other and took a more conventional hold. 

     They grappled and strained for some time, their skins becoming slick
and slippery with sweat, and then as a result of one last desperate
thrust, Richard crashed to the floor and Allan was on top of him, twining
his legs with Richard's and in so doing rubbing their groins together. 
Richard was seized and held fast and lay there, seemingly exhausted and
Allan smelled the healthy body smell of him and felt the wild beating of
his heart. So sure was he that he had won that Allan relaxed his hold and
at that Richard gripped Allan around the waist and held him fast, his arms
clasped around his opponent's back. Allan was trying to concentrate on
breaking free, but all he could think of was that their groins were
pressed together.  Through the double layers of woollen hose he felt
Richard's cock against his, heated, hard flesh against equally hard flesh.
They battled together as they tried out their respective strengths, 

     Allan gripped even more strenuously, his arm muscles swelling as he
tried to compel Richard to submit but neither was prepared to surrender.
Their panting was harsh and Allan smelled not the stink of garlic but the
sweet wine on Richard's breath. It was like a kiss, their mouths only
inches apart.  

     Finally, as both panted and strained and neither seemed capable of
winning, Robin whispered in Piers' ear, "Announce a draw."

     Piers stood. "The contest is drawn," he said.

     Slowly, almost as if they were unwilling to leave go of each other,
the two men drew apart. Both were breathing heavily, perspiration running
down their faces and chests. John brought them some drink and they gulped
it down thirstily.

     "But who has won the games?" asked Much.

     Piers looked at John who was keeping tally. He gave Robin an anxious
look but Robin only gave him a shrug. John passed the piece of parchment
on which he had been making marks to show the record to Piers and
whispered in his ear to explain what it meant.

     Piers sat on his throne, looking serious - or as serious as the
strong cider allowed him to be. "The winner of the games - "

     "Victor Ludorum," interrupted Robin.

     " - er yes, the Victor Ludorum, is - Richard Flute. And I present him
with the Crown of Victory."

     Richard, broadly grinning, stepped up and then knelt so that Piers
could put the chaplet on his head.

     "And now I make my homage again to the May King," said Richard and by
his side, John felt Allan tense. The others cheered.

     "I kiss his Majesty on the forehead," said Richard and did so.
Another cheer.

     "I kiss his Majesty on the lips," said Richard and John held out his
hand as Allan attempted to step forward. But the kiss Richard put on
Piers' red lips was chaste, and Allan relaxed.

     "The cheeks, the cheeks," shouted everyone.

     Richard dropped to his knees again but this time suddenly seized
Piers by the ankles and tipped him backwards. He fell over, the throne
toppling under him. Legs in the air, his buttocks faced Richard and with a
sudden movement, Richard pulled his leggings down exposing the cheeks of
his arse. "I kiss his Majesty's cheeks," said Richard, fetching a hearty
buss on each one and then going between for a longer period.

     Allan gave a great shout and John could not hold him. He caught
Richard a swipe on the side of his head with his clenched fist so that he
fell with Piers underneath him and Allan was on top, the three bodies
squirming and rolling on the ground together in confusion, Piers' private
parts on plain view for everyone to see.

     The outlaws cheered as if this was entertainment indeed but John
could see a serious brawl developing and he dragged the two main
combatants apart with his mighty hands. They glowered at each other,
furiously angry, while Piers picked himself up and looked mortified that
his dignity had been compromised. He adjusted his leggings so that he was
covered.

     "It was but a jest," said Robin. "Clasp hands in friendship." But the
two refused and the day which had started so well ended on a sour note.
Allan and Piers retired to their hut, while Richard and the rest seemed
embarrassed until the drink returned their high spirits.

     But John knew that Allan would not forget so easily.


               Fytte the Fifth: Archery Gala
         

So it was heard throughout the whole of the West Riding of Yorkshire that
the Nottingley Archery Contest was to be held on Midsummer's Day, June
23rd, that it would be open to whoever wished to compete and that the
prize would be a golden arrow, the like of which had never been seen
before. This was seen as a great attraction even by those who had no
intention of competing and many who would have spent Midsummer's Day at
their own village's lesser entertainment, made the journey to Nottingley,
by horse, wagon or on foot, some indeed ignoring the curfew and travelling
by night.

     The day started early with the ducking of the scolds and the outraged
shrieks of those poor unfortunate women who had been adjudged as too
nagging of their husbands or who might have indulged in malicious gossip
over the last year greeted the early arrivals and put them into a merry
frame of mind.

     Other entertainments there were as several malefactors were confined
in the stocks and much fun was had hurling rotted vegetables at them and
cheering as the foetid missiles exploded on face and body.

     A bear danced, ponderous and ungainly, on his two hind legs,
encouraged by his master's goad and several dogs were set to fight and
provoked much merriment by tearing each other to bits. Some people had
their fortunes mistold and many others were cheated into buying cheap
gimcracks at inflated prices from the stalls. A few were mildly poisoned
from food sold to them by the piemen.

     Merry England indeed!

     But the main focus of attention was the archery contest and there
were so many entrants that the heats had to be started early in the
morning in order to get rid of the unskilful who had entered merely out of
bravado.

     A space had been cleared down the centre of the market space and
marked out well and clearly so that no one should by accident cross into
the path of the arrows. Not that this would have been an unwelcome
addition to the fun for winging a stray passer-by would clearly be seen as
providing an extra entertainment to the proceedings.

     Several of the outlaws as well as Robin had entered for the
competition, in fact all except the two boys and the Quint brothers. John
was a little concerned when Robin was clearly recognised by some of the
onlookers as the runner up at the Ferrybridge Tournament, the one who had
only lost because Sir Guy of Gisborne's soldiers had arrived to upset the
proceedings. Robin himself felt he was amongst friends even if recognised
and would listen to none of John's anxious presentiments.

     Here at Nottingley, though, the competition was fiercer and, once the
first rounds were over and the incompetents elimininated, they found the
succeeding rounds challenging. Arrow after arrow hummed through the air,
and with scarcely a breeze and little need for the archers to compensate,
thudded into the straw targets. Clearly it was going to take some time
before the competition got really interesting and the Quints, Much and
Will wandered off through the crowd to seek other amusements.

     The boys found a tug of war contest. Men from opposing villages
strained to pull their opponents into the brook that ran conveniently down
the middle, the defeated team emerging damp and laughing after being
dragged through it. A boys' contest was also announced, Nottingley versus
Ferrybridge and, as Ferrybridge was short of two, Much and Will joined
their side. Much anyway knew many of the youths as he was originally from
that village.

     The Quints observed from the side and once or twice nodded an
unspoken comment, perhaps at the performance of the teams, perhaps at the
sight of some unseasonably cloaked men hovering in the background, hoods
covering much of their faces.

     Much and Will's wrestling had kept them fit and strong and their
developing muscles made them welcome additions to the Ferrybridge side.
They took their marks and pulled, straining against the other side, leg
muscles taut, arms pulling at the rope, bodies leaning backwards as they
hauled. Nottingley seemed to be stronger and step by step they were tugged
towards the brook. Then Will dug his heels into the ground, shouting to
Much to do the same and the two sides drew to a halt, sweat starting from
their bodies and their faces, flushed with the effort. Then just as it
seemed as if it would result in a stalemate, Nottingley gave a fraction
and Ferrybridge hauled them backwards. Now it was Nottingley's turn to be
dragged towards the brook. Their leader hovered on the brink and then
suddenly released his hold. Others did likewise so that the Ferrybridge
team fell backwards onto each other, a riot of laughter and tangled limbs.

     The Quints were perhaps not the close observers of their young
friends as they might have been. Although they did not have an unspoken
method of communication as Robin had thought, they did seem to share a
sort of mutual understanding which often needed no words to express, and
often relied on no more than nods or facial expressions to convey their
thoughts. Both seemed to be worried by these hooded, cloaked figures who
were interspersed within the crowd but yet seemed to move together so
that, if one went to a particular part of the ground, the others would
seem to gravitate there also.

     A cheer from the direction of the Archery contest saw the men
gradually converging towards that end of the ground. Peter nodded to his
brother who immediately went and picked Much and Will out of the jumbled
throng of cheerful youths.

     The boys were disposed to linger but Tom hustled them away to the
length of cobblestone arena made bright with multi-coloured flags and
pennons fluttering cheerfully in the light breeze which had recently
sprung up. The crowd had grown considerably since they had left but the
twins noticed how the hooded men also seemed to have all gathered there
and were edging their way towards the front.

     "Wait here," said Tom to the boys in so serious a tone that they
immediately grew serious. There was an untenanted stall nearby and Much
and Will clambered on to it so that they could see what was happening.

     "What is the matter?" asked Much but Tom did not answer, merely
nodding to Peter who left them and tried to push his way to where the
competitors, John and Robin amongst them, were standing, waiting their
turns to shoot. Allan, Piers and Richard seemed to have been eliminated by
this time because they were standing on the edge of the crowd watching.

     The target, now a tiny butt at the extreme end of the course, had
been set up and the first competitor fired his arrow, narrowly missing.
The crowd cheered. It seemed that whatever anyone did, success or failure,
would be greeted with applause. Peter slipped into the area and the boys
could see him talking earnestly to John.

     "What is happening?" asked Will and Tom pointed out the hooded heads
of the men now surrounding that part of the course where the competitors
were gathered.

     "Who are they?" asked Much but Tom only shrugged.

     "They are cloaked and hooded," said Much, "but it's what we all
wear."

     "On Midsummer's Day?" asked Peter shortly and the boys grew silent,
watching.

     The sun went behind a little cloud no bigger than a furlong field but
all of a sudden it seemed colder and the breeze blew on the back of their
necks raising their hairs so that they shivered.

     Another cheer went up as there was a further miss. John was talking
to Robin, presumably passing on Peter's fears for Robin looked up sharply
and scanned the crowd. They could see his chestnut curls and even the
carefree smile on his lips. John, on the other hand, was scowling.

     Four more competitors to shoot. John was next, but they could see his
heart was not in it. He scarcely bothered to take aim and the arrow shot
over the top of the target missing it by a foot or so. The crowd cheered.

     The next competitor - and they could see that it was indeed the same
lad, short, stocky, straw-haired who went by the name of Hal, who had won
at Ferrybridge. His arrow lodged in the target but over to the right hand
side. Nevertheless the crowd roared their enthusiastic approval.

     The next man missed but there was no shame attached - It was after
all a tiny target and set far, far away. He received his due from the
generous crowd. At last it was Robin's turn. He fitted his arrow and drew
the bowstring, sighting carefully along the shaft, allowing for distance
and the breeze which was now coming from right to left. He caressed the
flight feathers into the string and then released them gently so as not to
jerk the bow. The arrow winged its way, singing its song through the air.
There was an audible thud, so quiet had the audience become, as it struck
the target, dead centre. No doubt now as to who was the winner and the
onlookers roared their approval hurling their caps in the air and waving
their hands.

     Peter Quint who was looking at Robin and applauding with the rest
felt rather than saw the swift movements of those around him. The hooded
men who pushed past him and quickly surrounded Robin and John, holding
them by their arms so that they could not move.

     Their leader threw back his hood and exposed the grey fringed, almost
bare pate of Rufus Derwent, Sheriff of Yorkshire. The crowd went silent.

     "Winner of the Golden Arrow, what is you name?" he demanded sarcastic
in victory, looking at Robin.

     "Fulke FitzWarren," said Robin boldly, "and I demand to know why I
have been so rudely seized."

     "You lie," said the Sheriff. "You are the infamous outlaw, Robin
Hood, and this is your lieutenant, Little John." The onlookers gasped for
although many of them had heard of Robin Hood, his reputation being great
throughout the Riding, few if any had ever set eyes on him.

     "It appears," continued the Sheriff, "that I have succeeded where Sir
Guy of Gisborne failed."


                 Fytte the Sixth: Festivities
           

It was like a scene from a dumb show, the separate figures frozen into
immobility. Robin Hood and Little John surrounded and held by dark cloaked
soldiers. In front of them, the erect figure of the Sheriff, head
uncovered, his grey tonsure disturbed by the breeze, a smile of triumph
twisting his lips.

     In the audience, Peter, Richard, Allan and Piers, watched in impotent
horror, while from the back of the crowd, Tom, Much and Will also stared.

     The sunlight glinted on Robin's copper-coloured curls. "So, Sheriff,
you take Sir Guy's credit as well as his castle, which if he had no heir,
by rights belongs to the King - yet another of your illegal wrestings of
property."

     Momentarily taken aback, the Sheriff flushed, then with the flat of
his hand, slapped Robin a ringing blow around the face. It left a crimson
record on his cheek.

     "Bluster all you may," he said. "It will not save you from the
punishment for your crimes."

     "Including the murder of my predecessor and the abduction of a novice
monk, Brother Dominic." Another cloaked and hooded figure stepped forward
and revealed himself as a churchman who wore a Bishop's crucifix on his
chest.

     The crowd cheered; they were certainly getting their groat's worth
today as revelation succeeded revelation!

     "Ah, my Lord Abbot," said Robin, "so now you wish the boy whom the
late Abbot rogered unmercifully to satisfy his lusts."

     "That is a lie," denied the Abbot stoutly, though with not much
conviction. "He must be returned to God."

     "Fulke FitzWarren does not tell lies," said Robin.

     "Who is this 'FitzWarren'?' asked the Abbot.

     "Ask the Sheriff," said Robin. "Ask him if he did not swindle Lord
FitzWarren's inheritance from his eldest son, steal his lands and moneys -
as he has stolen the taxes from his lawful King - and drive the
disinherited Fulke into the Forest of Barnsleydale where he must earn his
living as an outlaw."

     "So Robin Hood is Fulke FitzWarren," said the Sheriff. "Then we will
get rid of two troublesome wretches at one go . . . "

     "But first, Sheriff Derwent," said a voice from the crowd, "we will
enquire into the matter of King's taxes and sequestered estates." Yes
another hooded figure stepped forward and threw off his hood exposing a
mop of golden curls. A small retinue of attendants stood behind him and
showed they were armed.

     The Abbot gasped.

     "The Devil we will," said the Sheriff and was about to tell his
soldiers to kill this importunate stranger when the Abbot muttered,
"Majesty," and sank to his knees. "It is the King," he said.

     The crowd cheered yet again. This was even better than the Mystery
Plays themselves. They whispered excitedly amongst themselves. Who would
next be unrobed in front of them - the Archangel Gabriel?

     The Sheriff grew pale. "Sire, these other matters can be sorted out
later. I have captured the criminal, Robin Hood."

     "Who in reality is in reality the rightful owner of the FitzWarren
estate," said Edward.

     "But he killed the late Abbot of Doncaster, my predecessor."

     "Who apparently abused a boy who was too young to give his consent to
such treatment, " said the King, silencing Lancolme. 

     For the first time the King turned his attention to Robin Hood,
observing him closely. A pair of brown eyes met his. The face was that of
a young man, perhaps early twenties, unshaven, with the soft stubble of a
beard. A mass of chestnut curls hung down almost to his shoulders. A smile
revealed good strong teeth. The man smelled of wood smoke and some sort of
sweet herb that Edward found familiar but could not immediately identify.

     "So, Robin - or perhaps I should call you Lord FitzWarren - what have
you to say."

     "It is past time that you were here, Sire," said Robin boldly,
"sorting out the corruption that men like Rufus Derwent here and the late
Guy of Gisborne spawn in your land."

     "I think so too," said Edward. "But you two - " he looked from Robin
to John " - are not the only ones of your band."

     "No, Sire, there are others. Behind you, Allan Forrest and Richard
Flute, Peter and Tom Quint at the back, and the boys Much, the Millers son
from Ferrybridge and Will Scarlock that once was Brother Dominic." He
gestured to the band and they came forward, the crowd parting to let those
at the back come through. "And Piers Howard," he finished as the
dark-haired man came forward with the rest.

     The King started. "Piers," he said. "I had almost forgot. Where is my
Piers?" He raised his voice. "Gaveston, come and see this merry band of
outlaws and tell me what shall be done with them."

     There was a slight movement in the packed crowd and tall, lithe
Gaveston came into sight, doing what appeared to be a rapid adjustment of
his hose. At the same time a pretty youth covered his bum and settled his
own clothing to conform ti the accepted standards.

     "Oh, Piers, Piers," said Edward but it seemed that he looked on such
activities indulgently for he was smiling as he spoke. "What shall we do
with these men?"

     Gaveston looked at them with his green, laughing eyes, while the
situation was explained to him. "Return Lord FitzWarren's inheritance to
him, Sire," he said. "And give him on top, Sir Guy's castle as recompense
for the years in exile and . . .  "

     God's Teeth, thought Derwent, this man is more the King than the King
himself - and knew the forebodings of disaster in his guts!

     "Agreed," said the King. "Let it be done... and . . . " He raised a
questioning eyebrow at his favourite.

     ". . . and a revelry to celebrate their pardon, Sire, " he said.

     Such revelry indeed. Music provided by the lute and shawm, singing of
rounds and dancing while Derwent languished under guard and the Abbot was
humiliated by the denial to him of his novice monk. For everyone food in
abundance paid for from the Sheriff's counting house and drink until most
over indulged and the rising of the full moon saw - in those that were
still able - coupling aplenty. 

     At length Much and Will crept away into the fields and woods around
observed only by the ever-watchful John. They found a glade lit by the
moon where the air was warm and balmy. Here on the soft grass they lay
down together and, as they had done so many times before, removed their
clothing and stroked each other's soft skin, arousing themselves in the
action.

     Much cupped Will's testicles, moist and warm, in his hand and Will
opened his legs with the pleasure of the caress, exposing himself to a
questing finger.

     "It feels so good to have you in there," said Will. "Can you not go
further."

     "My finger is full in," said Much. "There is only one thing I have
which is longer and of the right size."

     "I have it already in my hand," said Will and stroked the hard shaft
of his cock so that Much shuddered.

     "Shall I put it in?" asked Much. "I would not want to hurt thee. Can
it get in that tiny hole?"

     Not answering, Will opened his legs wider and pushed his body up so
that he was open and available. "If you lie between my legs," he
whispered, "and I rest them on your shoulders, you can enter. But first
moisten the way with your tongue."

     "Willingly," said Much, "and after that I have something which will
make the entry smooth and easy - Goosegrease. I have some here in a
leather bag."

     "So you had some idea of doing it beforehand," said Will.

     "It crossed my mind," said Much, going at him with a ready
determination and much use of his tongue.

     Will arched his body with pleasure and his cock jerked in Much's
hand.

     "Now the grease," said Much, suiting the action to his words and
spreading it liberally both inside and outside. He rubbed the head of his
prick against the opening and then with a little push overcame the slight
resistance. "And now . . gently, smoothly, in. Does it hurt thee?" 

     "It is a curious feeling," said Will, "but I could grow to like it.
Go further. Yes that is better. How does it feel to you?"

     "It clasps me so warmly. I think it is a taste of heaven . . . Oh
yes!"

     "Slide in and out," said Will, "and at the same time rub me."

     "What is happening?" asked Robin. "Are they all right?"

     John peered through the screen of green leaves. "I think we can leave
them. They are discovering the delights of becoming men," he said. "Let us
try to recapture the same feelings."

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